


poison and wine

by fluorexcence



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, sorry bout it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-11-27 16:57:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18196889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluorexcence/pseuds/fluorexcence
Summary: violet and olaf through the years





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm very aware of how icky this pairing is, if it bothers you then don't read 
> 
> not pretending that they're ever gonna be in a healthy relationship but the dynamic is interesting to explore.
> 
> chapter title is from alt-J

i. _she may contain the urge to run away, but hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks_

The first three months of her marriage are the most difficult. 

Violet had never been the type to daydream about her future wedding and husband. Her mind was that of an inventor: sharp and fast, more concerned with the inner workings of a machine than that of a heart. Nevertheless, she had sometimes thought about the possibility. 

The reality is so different from those ephemeral, fleeting thoughts. In no iteration of the future did she plan on being married this young, to a man so cruel. 

The beginning is the worst. She is only fourteen, unprepared to deal with the onslaught of emotions and the sheer fact that she now has a husband. He, bolstered by the heady feeling of success and the lecherous cheers of his troupe, is blind to his new bride’s suffering. He spends the first few months of their marriage drunk, each night another dinner or event that ends in raucous behavior. Violet makes herself scarce during these nights, refusing to go downstairs. Occasionally, he will make her join the festivities, and in these moments she sticks close to his side. She’d rather pick a familiar poison than the wandering hands and eyes of strange men. He seems amused at this, holding her close to him at the head of the table. 

He raises his glass in a toast. “To my blushing bride, Violet,” he says, and the troupe erupts in cheers and licentious jeers. She shrugs his arms off her shoulders, hurrying to the relative safety of upstairs. 

Later, when the drunken troupe has left the house, he staggers upstairs. She’s perched on a stool in front of the vanity, plaiting her dark hair. He leans against the doorframe, regarding his young wife. 

“It’s awfully rude to abandon your husband in the middle of a toast,” he drawls, making his way to her. He rests his hands on her shoulders, silently marveling at the fragility. He could break her so easily, he thinks, this tiny girl of his. 

She doesn’t turn around. “Clearly manners don’t matter here. I was just following suit,” she says sharply. 

“What does that mean?”

There is a pause as she decides how much to reveal. “Your troupe is disgusting,” she finally says. 

His brow furrows, turning her around by the shoulders. She is so very tired, and doesn’t protest as he stands her up, removing the shawl that covers her shoulders. Dark purplish bruises line her arm, the most obvious one in the shape of a hand on her forearm. 

“Who did this?” he asks quietly. She turns away, upset, but he holds her fast. “Answer me.”

“I don’t know his name, he was new. Tall, blonde hair,” she mutters, still not looking at him. 

He loosens his grip on her, dropping his hands to his sides. “Go to sleep, Violet,” he says as he leaves the room. For once, she does not argue. 

—

The next week, the troupe is back, drunker and rowdier than ever. Violet manages to avoid most interactions, but Olaf had insisted on her presence during dinner. She is on the way to the kitchen to get another bottle of wine when an arm blocks her way. It’s the man from before, leering above her as he traps her against the wall. “Where are you going, little mouse?” he sneers. “You keep scurrying away from me.”

“Leave me alone,” she demands, trying to duck under his arm but he catches her, hauling her up against his chest. 

His breath is hot against her ear as he says, “I don’t think so, little mouse.”

Panic settles in her chest, but before she can scream the man grunts, his arms falling from her as he drops to the ground. A slim dagger is lodged in his chest, right by his heart. Violet whips around to see Olaf standing at the head of the table, face cast in shadows and breath heavy with exertion and anger. 

“If anyone else touches my wife, this is what you can expect,” he says lowly. The rest of the troupe is silent as their leader sits back down. “Get him out of here, then leave, all of you,” he orders with a wave of his hand. 

Violet does not move as the troupe gets to work, and remains standing against the wall after they leave. She wants to leave, but her limbs won’t obey her.

“Violet,” he says finally, standing before her. She trembles as he holds her arms, drawing her away from the wall. “No one will touch you again.”

“What about you?” she asks quietly, afraid of the answer but desperate to know. He had not touched her, despite what the troupe believed. 

He gives a dry laugh, letting her go and swiping a wine bottle from the table. He drinks straight from the bottle, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “I prefer my partners willing. I need your fortune, not your cunt.”

She sighs in relief, choosing to ignore his vulgarity. She turns to leave, but is stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t go getting any ideas now. The wellbeing of those brats depends on you playing your part.”

She straightens at this. “I know. I won’t do anything to jeopardize their safety.” That is why she is here, after all. The deal she had struck with Olaf, her freedom in return for Klaus and Sunny’s. She is the oldest, and she will be damned if anything happens to them. It’s all worth it, if it keeps them safe. She’ll stay. 

He nods, regarding her with dark eyes. “Good, we’re in agreement then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from japanese breakfast

ii. _striving for goodness, while the cruel men win_

For the next year or so, she is mostly left to her own devices. He’s gone much of the time, never giving her a proper answer when she asks where he is going. After establishing the fact that she would not run away or do anything to risk her siblings’ lives, he’d granted her a great deal of freedom. 

“I’m trusting you to not be stupid,” he’d warned, and she had scoffed and shouldered past him. 

She decides the only way she’d stay sane in this impossible situation is to make this house somewhat livable. 

Tying her hair back, she rolls up her sleeves and sets to work with a grim determination. Yes, she was stuck here, but that didn’t mean she had to live in perpetual darkness and filth. Layers of dust are swept away, empty bottles are collected from every odd corner of the house and stacked in neat rows. Violet throws most of them away but keeps a particularly pretty wine bottle, a slim blue one. She fills it with hydrangeas that she’d surreptitiously cut from a neighbor’s garden. 

_Perhaps his villainy has rubbed off on me_ , she thinks as she sweeps the floors, but then she catches sight of the purple blooms in their makeshift vase atop the dining table, and she allows herself this one little sin.

Heavy curtains are pulled back and the large windows are opened. She’s fairly certain she broke the latch on the kitchen window as she forced it open, but the late spring sun filters through and for once, she feels like she can breathe. 

A deep sense of satisfaction fills her as she surveys her handiwork. If this was to be her home, she would carve out whatever space she could for herself. Pleased with her accomplishment, she runs herself a hot bath and emerges feeling fresh and new. 

She makes herself a cup of tea, settles into an armchair, and waits for her husband to return. 

He shows up sometime after midnight, the turning lock jolting Violet awake. All traces of sleep are gone as he comes into focus, replaced with confusion and a furrowed brow. 

“You look terrible,” she says, looking him up and down. His shoes are muddy, clothes stained with soot and a general layer of sweat and grime covers him.

“Nice to see you too, wife. You’re up late,” he replies. 

She ignores him, stepping closer and wrinkling her nose. “You smell like a fire! Where the hell have you been?”

“A fire,” he says with a grin. “You should’ve seen it, it was incredible—“

“I don’t want to know,” she interrupts. “And, take off those disgusting shoes before you take one more step.”

He stiffens, but slowly grins and complies. “Feisty, are we?” 

She stabs her finger into his chest. “I’m not your maid, and I refuse to clean up after your troupe. You married _me_ , so this is _my_ house too! And if you’re gonna be difficult, I swear to God, I will undermine you in every way possible.” 

She turns and sits back down, tucking her nightdress around her primly. “Oh, and I want full reign of the garden. I’m not gonna make a habit of stealing flowers.”

He laughs, equal parts annoyed and impressed with her forwardness. “Fine, do what you want. But just remember—“

“Yes yes, you’re dangerous and you can hurt me, I know,” she says, waving him off irritably. “I’m going to sleep now.” 

He’s left standing alone, somewhat stunned. He shakes his head and laughs, picking up his wrecked shoes and maneuvering to the kitchen, careful not to track any dirt in. 

–– 

The next morning, there is no sign of Olaf. This isn’t unusual, so Violet patters downstairs and makes herself tea, humming softly to herself. She stops short when she sees a small rose bush in a pot of soil, sitting on the counter with a note resting among the leaves. 

_Can’t have my wife stealing flowers and wrecking havoc on the neighborhood gardens, but if you’re interested in villainy I’m more than happy to assist. – O_

She rolls her eyes, but gently picks up the plant and carries it outside, a plan for the garden already forming in her mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from lana del rey, the other woman

iii. _and when her old man comes to call, he finds her waiting like a lonesome queen_

Violet turns sixteen that September. She spends the day in the garden, elbows deep in the rich, dark earth, then curls into an armchair with a book about telling the difference from edible and poisonous plants. Predictably, Olaf does not acknowledge the day at all, but he stays out of her way and that is gift enough for her. 

She sometimes fantasizes about poisoning him, but then she remembers that even if he were to die, his associates would still have control over her and her siblings’ lives. In any case, they’d reached a tentative peace over the two years they’d been married. The last time things had truly been bad was after a particularly trying period. Olaf’s plans, whatever they were, seemed to be failing. He’d come home, singed and cut and bruised, his brow constantly furrowed and shoulders tensed. He barely slept, seeming to subsist on bitter coffee and spite alone. 

If it were any other person, Violet would’ve been concerned. 

But it was him, and in his stress he would lash out at her. True to her word, she did her best to slight him in any way she could. His favorite shirts would end up torn or stained with bleach, bottles of liquor would go missing from the cellar. In a particularly vindictive move, Violet had found a dusty folder hidden underneath the mattress. She had pored over the documents and photos she’d found inside, but hadn’t been able to make sense of any of it. It was full of obscure references, or poetry, or just a jumble of words on a page, but it was important enough for him to hide it. 

Triumphant, she had taken the folder and set it alight, watching the faded pages disappear into the flames before blackening into ash. He’d walked in just in time to see her drop the last page into the fire, and the wave of fury was almost tangible. He’d grabbed her, threatening violence and she’d screamed right back, clawing at his chest and any place she could reach, and then he’d slapped her so sharply she was stunned into silence.

“If you do anything like that again, wife or no, I’ll kill you,” he breathed as she clutched her smarting cheek. She didn’t doubt that he meant it. 

Since that night, terrible as it was, they had reached a certain, unspoken understanding. This strange camaraderie makes little sense, and she’s certain they still despise one another, but she’d learnt not to question too much. It only led to disappointment and heartache. 

She decides she’s had quite enough of that. 

––

In November, she’s officially been married for two years. The previous year she’d spent the day weeping, mourning her childhood and freedom, but her year of isolation has softened her anger into a resigned acceptance. She wanders downstairs after her bath, her hair still wet, on a mission for one last cup of tea before bed. She reaches for the teabags when the box is suddenly lifted out of reach, eliciting a surprised squeak. She whirls around to see Olaf, her tea in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. 

“Give it back,” she says, unsuccessfully jumping to grab it, but he just laughs and lifts it higher. 

“Is there a reason you’re holding my tea hostage?” she says, annoyed at his antics. 

He lieu of a response, he sets down two glasses, pouring a bit of wine in one and filling the other to the brim. He pushes the small one towards a bemused Violet, drinking deeply from his own cup. 

“I don’t like wine,” she says, almost apologetically. 

He nudges her with his elbow. “It’s sweet, you’ll like this one.” 

Deciding to humor him, she takes a tentative sip. He’s right, it’s sweet and good and he’s already smirking in triumph, so she busies herself with reading the label on the bottle to hide her inexplicable blush. The bottle is slim and blue, just like the one she keeps flowers in. 

He takes the bottle from her hands, leaving the kitchen and settling on the sofa. She follows him, perching herself on the armrest.

They sit in silence for a while, the moonlight turning them into two ghostly figures. The wine makes Violet feel pleasantly warmed, like the edges of her consciousness have been blurred. Her mind feels dulled, and for once, she does not mind it. 

She’s startled out of her thoughts when he speaks, his voice low and gruff. “We’re more similar than you know,” he says absently. Her brow furrows, but she is too sleepy and comfortable to bother questioning him. 

He raises his glass towards her. “Joyeux anniversaire, mon cher.”

\--  
After determining that the only kitchen supplies Olaf considers essentials are coffee and wine, Violet decides groceries would be her responsibility. She enjoys the walk there and back, enjoys planning dishes and choosing the best vegetables from the neat displays. If she were to analyze this, she’d say she was trying to have some semblance of control in her life, and this task fulfills that need. But, Violet is more interested in action and the tangible than in analytic musings, so grocery shopping becomes something to look forward to each week. 

She’s thinking about how she could repurpose their broken radio on her walk home when she collides with a tall, solid body. Her bags drop and fruits and cans roll in opposite directions. Embarrassed, she mumbles apologies, trying to gather her things as quickly as possible. The body belongs to a boy, no more than seventeen years old. 

“Oh shit, sorry! That was my bad,” the boy says, handing her an apple. She takes it, suddenly feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable. “I’m Jack,” he says, and she allows herself to look at him properly. He has a bright, friendly face and an easy smile. 

“Violet,” she says finally, shaking his proffered hand. 

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he continues, and his inane chatter becomes background noise and Violet realizes, with some horror, that she has not spoken to someone her own age in over two years. The boy – Jack – obliviously keeps talking, now having moved onto the subject of school drama and parties. “Anyways, there’s one this Saturday if you–“

“I’m married,” she blurts, instantly regretting the words as soon as they leave her mouth. He blinks, clearly shocked. 

“Oh. Right then,” he says, confused, but Violet has already left, hurrying down the street. 

The brief interaction rattles her, and a wave of mourning washes over her as she unpacks the groceries. She wonders about another Violet, one who could’ve laughed easily and maybe even gone to that party. How could she ever do that now? She couldn’t relate to anything her peers were interested in, her experiences were so far removed. 

She’s suddenly desperate for contact, for connection, for any sign that she’s real and here and _seen_. Where she had once desperately wanted to be left alone, she now finds herself seeking Olaf out. He raises a brow when she settles next to him on the couch to read, but chooses not to comment. Most times they don’t speak, but having another person around is some comfort. 

It becomes a routine of sorts. She reads (currently: a biography of Nikola Tesla), balancing a mug of tea on her knee as he flips through scripts and plays. At night, he’ll drink wine or something stronger, occasionally pressing a glass of it into her hand. Alcohol always makes her sleepy, and it’s not long before she dozes off. As the weeks had gone by, she’d gradually made her way closer to him, seeking warmth and simple human contact, and sometimes she likes to rest her head against his arm. 

––

He observes his little wife as she sleeps, chest rising in even breaths. In sleep, she looks so very young, the stress and tired frown gone. She’s pale, her dark hair spread out over shoulders like spilled ink, and in her stillness she almost looks like a doll. He’d noticed her odd behavior, her sudden agreeableness and proximity to him, but had declined to comment. He knows he could’ve forced her, held her down and broken her, but it is _so_ much sweeter to have her seek him out of her own volition. 

Slowly, but surely, she would come to him. He was certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls Validate me  
> tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from japanese breakfast, posing in bondage

iv. _can you tell I’ve been posing this way alone for hours, waiting for your affection, waiting for you_

When Violet was a child, she often dreamt of water. The world was dim and in varying shades of blue, the darkest depths an inky black that surrounded her in a watery prison. She would sink further and further down, no matter how hard she fought to break to the surface, until all she could see was darkness and the ocean swallowed her whole.  


Now, she dreams of fire. It consumes everything in its path, catching flame and blackening into dust. Sometimes, she sees her childhood home erupt in flames, sees her mother and father and siblings become columns of fire and she wakes choking on smoke, ash heavy on her tongue. 

Lately, the dream has mutated. There is always a fire, and she is lost among the flames. The shadows that lurk at the edges blur into faces she half-remembers before fading away. And then, _he_ emerges from the fire like he belongs in it, the familiar smirk and swept back hair, and then they are _burning_. Flames lick at her arms, at her face, but his tongue is in her mouth and the only heat she feels is something coiling deep in her stomach, and then they both dissolve into ash. 

––

In general, they don’t often share a bed. With the odd hours he keeps and her penchant for falling asleep on the couch, it had become a rare event. These nights of keeping each other company within their solitude had been the closest –physically– that they’d been in a long time. 

When she wakes up, tucked against his side on the couch, she is disorientated by her dream and her proximity to Olaf in equal measure. She jerks herself out of his embrace, jolting him awake. 

He unfurls his long limbs, sitting upright and scrubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. Violet pretends she does not miss the warmth of his arm around her as she huddles herself into a corner of the couch. 

He eyes her warily, seeing the wild cornered-animal look in her eyes. She stares back, the remnants of her dream swirling around her –

 _Fire and his mouth and his hands all over her and she is so hot, so hot and they are burning, burning, burning_ –

“Violet!” he says loudly, snapping his fingers in her face. She turns to him, those same wild eyes, and he does not like the way she looks at him, as if she had never seen him before. 

She shakes her head. “Sorry, what did you say?”

He sighs dramatically. “I said, go make a pot of coffee.”

He’s genuinely surprised when she gets up without complaint, disappearing into the kitchen. There is the sound of boiling water, and then the aroma of brewing coffee fills the room. 

She emerges with a tea tray some time later, handing him a cup. His fingers brush against hers as he takes it, grunting his thanks as he picks up the newspaper. Violet settles in the armchair across from him, fixing a cup for herself.

“That’s disgusting,” he comments as she pours heaps of sugar in her coffee. She almost laughs at his genuine horror. 

“It’s good,” she insists. He rolls his eyes and turn his attention back to the paper, and Violet is content to sit in the morning sun, sipping her sugary coffee. She’s glad that the tension or whatever it was has seemed to dissipate, and she feels less on edge.

She looks up at him through her lashes, surreptitiously observing her husband. His hair is damp from the shower, swept back from his face, his long fingers curled around his mug. _Had his jaw always been so sharp?_ she wonders. His eyes are narrowed as he reads, such a pale blue that they’re almost translucent. It reminds her of the pale sea glass she used to collect on trips to the beach. He glances up, and she quickly looks down, hating the furious blush that heats her cheeks, and hating the smug smirk on his face as he catches her staring. 

––

Violet scrubs at a pot furiously, willing her traitorous subconscious to stop plaguing her with increasingly explicit dreams. She did not have the time nor the inclination to unpack whatever these dreams meant, but it did leave her in a slightly panicked, annoyed mood. 

She moves on to the stack of wine glasses on the counter, but the stem slips from her soaped hands and falls, shattering. She glares at the offending shards, yet another thing that was ruined and out of her control. She sighs and bends to pick up the glass and a sliver of glass slices into her palm.

“Fuck!” she mutters, watching a line of red color her palm, marring the pale skin. 

_Fuck this terrible day and this fucking house and fucking fuck him_ , she thinks, holding her injured hand and hurrying upstairs for ointment and a bandage. The cut stings and she’s tired and annoyed and dangerously close to crying. She settles on anger, instead. 

She reaches for the bathroom door right as it opens, and she’s suddenly face to face with Olaf. His hair is wet, steam from the shower swirling around him and only a towel around his hips. She stares openly at his bare chest, covered in various scars and faded tattoos. 

“You’re bleeding.”

At the sound of his voice she starts, remembering why she’d come here in the first place. She mumbles something and gestures to her hand, acutely aware of how _bare_ he is, and then her hand is in his as he examines the wound. 

It’s deeper than expected and she hisses in pain when he presses it. He frowns, turning to rifle through the cabinet. He guides her to sit on the edge of the tub, wiping the blood from her hand and carefully wrapping her palm in bandages. Tiny drops of red stain his towel. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles. At his blank expression, she points to the white towel around his waist. “My, uh, blood got on it.”

He waves her off, standing them up as he finishes dressing her hand. “There’s very few things in this house that haven’t had blood on them.”

She blinks. “That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

“I’m just saying, don’t worry about a towel.”

“Okay,” she says, looking down to hide her almost-smile.  
––  
Contrary to what Violet thinks, Olaf is capable of love. Somewhat. He’s aware that it’s never been of the fairytale variety, but given his general amorality and the murky ethics of VFD, he figures he deserves some leeway. What are people but products of their environments?

In his weaker, more reflective moments when he’s had a bit too much of the drink, he’ll think of promises made lifetimes ago, of easy smiles and long hair swept up with chopsticks. Then he tastes coppery betrayal and shattered idealism and remembers what lead him here in the first place. 

Recently, when he closes his eyes he sees an impossibly pale, sharp face and eyes so dark you could drown in them. He wonders if he should be concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they are both Angry and confused/hot n bothered 
> 
> let me know what u think lads


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the civil wars, dance me to the end of love

v. _let me see your beauty, when the witnesses are gone  
let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon_

Violet is nothing if not decisive. She knows that direct action is the only way to change things. She sets her jaw, straightens her back, and strides with determination.

She falters for a beat outside the door to his office, her hand hesitating above the doorknob. Maybe this was foolish, there was too much room for error and-–

 _No_ , she thinks and pushes the door open.

The office isn’t really an office, but Olaf had claimed it as his to conduct his business. It’s predictably messy, half empty cups of coffee and fully empty bottles of wine line the tables. Marked-up manuscripts, sheet music, and various books are stacked on the shelves, the desk, and the overstuffed armchairs. Her husband sits with feet propped up on the desk, a script in his hand, scribbling notes in the margins. Loud opera plays on the phonograph, and he doesn’t hear her enter until she’s standing in front of him. 

He startles when she seemingly appears from no where, his legs falling off the desk as he jerks up. 

“Christ! Why are you always sneaking up on me?” he grumbles, righting himself in the chair. 

She blinks. “I’m not sneaking, you just have bad hearing.”

His eyes narrow. “What are you saying? That I’m old?”

“I’m saying that you have bad hearing.”

“That is categorically untrue, I have _selective hearing_ , I have the _fine-tuned_ ear of a–“

She knows from past experience that this can only lead to a lengthy monologue of his various artistic talents. “Enough,” she interrupts. 

Shockingly, he actually shuts up, eyeing her suspiciously. Her tone is odd, and she keeps fidgeting with a loose button on her dress. “What are you up to, Violet?”

She twists the hem of her dress in her hands, willing herself to calm down. “I’m not up to anything!” she insists. He simply raises a brow, clearly not believing her.

Taking a deep breath, she carefully circles around the desk to stand in front of him. Her knees brush the chair he sits on, the sharp corner of dark wood against her hip. With the same precise motion, she takes his hands in hers, placing them flat on his knees. 

He watches silently as his strange little wife arranges his limbs. Her touch is feather-light but even still, it _sears_ him. Afraid of startling her away from whatever this was, he keeps his hands stilled. She studiously avoids eye contact. 

“Violet,” he says, voice low and even. 

She simply hushes him, cups his jaw in her hand, and slowly, slowly presses her lips to his. It is such a gentle, sweet kiss but the heady feeling of victory sings in his blood and _dear god_ he’s wanted her. This brief, small taste is all he needs. 

He leans into her lips, hands moving to grab her by the arms, pulling her to him. She lets him pull her into his lap, her breath quickening as his arm wraps securely around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head as he kisses her fiercely. 

He grins against her lips when her own hands tentatively reach up, holding his shoulders to steady herself. Her fingers brush against the nape of his neck, and he feels drunk on her kisses. Her lips, pink and swollen from his attentions, part for him and she can’t be sure she’s not dreaming–-

 _Fire and his mouth and his hands all over her and she is so hot, so hot and they are burning, burning, burning_ –-

But no, the insistent pressure of his mouth on hers and his firm grip on her waist is _real_. She could not have dreamt up this searing, bruising pleasure that coils deep in her stomach. 

They break apart, and he steals a moment to observe her. Her breath comes in quick, uneven pants and there is a gorgeous flush staining her cheeks and her sternum where it disappears behind the collar of her dress. 

_“Violet_ ,” he breathes, ragged. She meets his eyes, finally, and gives the smallest of nods. He grins, feral, and then he’s hauling her up to sit on the desk. She makes a small sound in surprise when the cool wood presses against her thighs, and she opens her mouth to speak but she finds her voice is stuck in her chest, drowned out by the pounding of her heart. 

His eyes never leave hers as he drops to his knees in front of her, running his hands up her legs, pushing her dress up as he goes. She stiffens as his hands travel higher and higher, but he murmurs assurances and she soon relaxes, lifting her hips to assist him as he drags her underwear down her legs. 

He parts her thighs easily, draping one leg over his shoulder and she feels so very exposed, but then he’s peppering kisses on her inner thighs and all she feels is pure want. She inhales sharply when he finally, finally touches her with those impossibly long fingers, and then his mouth is on her and she is lost.

He devours her, holding her legs open for him as he works his tongue against her, savoring each noise and moan that escapes her pretty lips. He focuses his attentions to her clit, and grins when she gasps. 

“Olaf – _oh!_ ” and she is _there_ , toes curling and her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him against her. 

He leans back, a smug look of satisfaction on his face, and wipes his slicked lips on the back of his hand. She lays across the desk, panting and flushed. He stands, leaning over her and presses a kiss to her lips, down her jaw and neck. 

“What a lovely little cunt you have,” he says against her skin, and laughs when she makes an indignant noise and pushes him away. Violet is off the desk in a flash, straightening her clothes and quickly shouldering past him out of the room. 

He’s left alone, laughing delightedly at this unexpected turn of events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao 
> 
> updates will be more sporadic, unfortunately. 
> 
> tell me what you think lads


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from florence and the machine, howl

vi. _if only you could see the beast you’ve made of me_  
_I held it in but now it seems you’ve set it running free_  
_screaming in the dark, I howl when we’re apar_ t  
_drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart_

Violet stands in the shower, letting hot water rush over her. She hopes the burning water will cleanse her and erase the feeling of his hands on her skin, his tongue and fingers on her, inside her. She turns the temperature from as hot as she can stand to as cold as possible, giving a small yelp when icy water hits her. 

_Maybe I can shock myself into thinking clearly,_ she thinks, glowering. 

She had run out of the office on shaky legs, hating him and wanting him. She had been a fool to think that a little fumble would be enough to quell this traitorous lust inside her, this deep consuming want. She successfully avoids him for the rest of the day and the next. It’s easy enough, his troupe arrives and he’s kept occupied, discussing plots of plays and villainy alike. 

It’s a hot, August night and she cannot sleep. She wanders through the house, unsure of where he is, but too restless to stay still. Her white cotton nightgown is thin, and all the windows are open and the night air is rapidly cooling. Violet welcomes the chill, hoping to soothe her fevered skin. 

She startles when she sees him, sitting in the dark. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, the top few buttons undone. He sips whiskey from a glass, watching her with dark eyes. 

“There she is,” he says, almost mockingly. She flushes, annoyed and aroused all at once. She commands herself to stand tall, unsure of how he manages to be imposing while sitting down. 

Speaking too soon, he stands up and crosses the room, catching her by the wrist. He presses the glass into her hand, bringing it to her lips. 

“Drink.” It’s an order, and she obeys. The amber liquid burns her throat and she splutters, but she lets it calm her pounding heart. He laughs, taking the glass and setting it on the coffee table. 

She eyes him nervously. She can _feel_ the hunger is his stare, can smell his cologne and she’s not sure if it’s the alcohol making her feel dizzy or her own want. He takes her hand in his, raising it to press his lips against it. Her breath hitches at the contact. 

“Olaf, I–“

He hushes her, drawing her into his arms and then he’s kissing her breathless. She cannot help but respond in kind, parting her lips for him as she grips his shirt, the other wrapping around his shoulders. She melts into his arms, tired of denying herself. She _wants_ to experience this, even if it is him. 

(Especially because it is him)

She breaks the kiss, letting her head fall back as he peppers kisses to her exposed neck, down to her sternum. She gasps as he lifts her, carrying her upstairs and laying her on the bed. She props herself up on her elbows, watching him carefully. 

He stands before her, tugging his belt loose. “I’m going to fuck you, Violet,” he says matter-of-factly. 

Her eyes widen almost comically, and he rolls his eyes at her antics. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this. After all, who came into my office yesterday? Begging me to eat your little cunt out?” 

She flushes, embarrassed because he’s right, damn him. She doesn’t understand her desire for him, but it’s there and it’s not going away. Perhaps living with him for three years had done something to her. She was consistently amazed at a person’s ability to get used to just about anything. Living with him and being married had become her normal, and who could blame her if certain feelings developed? She was young, and desire was normal for a girl her age. Maybe not directed at a much older husband, but they were way past that now. 

He unbuttons his shirt, untucking it and shrugging it off. She stares openly at his bare chest, unconsciously pressing her legs together. And then, he’s on top of her, mouth on hers as his hand caresses her cheek, trailing downwards to cup her small breast. His thumb circles her pebbled nipple through the thin cotton, and she cannot help but arch into his touch. 

He pulls back to regard her carefully. “Unless you tell me, I won’t hesitate to make you fully mine.”

She may be laying beneath him, but she realizes with a sudden rush that she has all the power right now. She could refuse, shove him off but she knows that she wants this, maybe even more than he does. 

With deliberate movements, she draws him back down to her for a kiss. “I want you,” she says simply, and his face splits into a smug grin. Olaf grabs the hem of her nightie, lifting it over her head and leaving her chest bare. He kisses his way down her chest, laving his tongue over the swell of her breast as he runs his hand down her waist, resting on her thigh. 

He pulls her underwear down, throwing the scrap of cotton to the floor, and settles between her legs. Their eyes meet for a beat, and then his mouth is on her and she shuts her eyes tight, fingers tangling in his hair. He traces her slicked folds with his fingers, gently pressing inside her. Violet moans, every muscle tensing. He laps at her clit and crooks his fingers inside her just so, and then she is shuddering in pleasure. 

He doesn’t let up though, continuing to stroke at her until she’s crying out. 

“It’s too much, _I can’t –_ “ 

“You can. Come on, Violet, come for me,” he murmurs against her, smiling as she comes again. 

He sits back, satisfaction etched into his face. Violet pants, her body wonderfully oversensitive and her inner thighs burning from where his beard scratched the soft skin. She can still feel his grip on her hips, sure to leave bruises the next day. 

Olaf climbs back over her, kissing her deeply. She can feel him hard against her stomach and that same heady feeling of power fills her alongside the pleasure. _She_ did that to him. He grinds into her, his low groan reverberating through her as they kiss. 

He pulls back, suddenly, brow furrowed. 

“What?” she asks, somewhat nervously. _Why did he stop?_

“You’re not going to get pregnant, are you?”

She chokes, scrambling to sit upright. “ _No!_ Jesus– no! I, uh, took precautions,” she mutters, stamping down the wave of embarrassment. She refuses to be ashamed of protecting herself. The trip to the doctor had been easy enough. 

“Ah, a boyfriend?” the doctor had said, smiling warmly at Violet. 

She had shuffled her feet uncomfortably, resisting the urge to correct the woman. 

_Husband,_ she thought. _My husband, who I may want to sleep with sometime soon._

At this revelation, Olaf looks positively _delighted_. “You minx. You _planned_ this." 

Her cheeks burn as she quickly looks down, squirming under his gaze. He just laughs, scooping her up and positioning her on the bed, kissing her almost sweetly. 

“My darling little wife,” he says softly, searching her eyes. “I’ll fuck you so good, you’ll be _ruined_. No one can make you feel like I can,” he promises. 

Despite her best efforts, Violet shivers in his arms, anxious for his touch. She cranes upward, kissing him as she trails her hand down his chest, stopping when she reaches the waistband of his trousers. 

He gets up quickly, kicking off his pants and boxers and then they are finally bare to each other. He settles himself back on top of her, meeting her eyes and gently brushing back her hair, caressing her cheek. She sighs, leaning into his palm and he’s reminded of a little cat. 

The moment is gone as quick as it comes, and then his lips are crashing against hers like he wants to devour her. 

_He’s a fire,_ she thinks hazily as he kisses the column of her neck. _He’ll consume and destroy everything in his path._

Feeling bold, she reaches a hand downwards and gently strokes the length of his cock, making him inhale sharply at her touch. He grinds into her, and he can no longer wait. 

“Fuck, Violet,” he says, breath hot against her face. She holds him to her, canting up her hips, giving him a quick nod. 

Slowly, slowly he presses into her, and she gasps as she is filled. She’s slick and pliant from her previous orgasms, and it doesn’t hurt so much as feel strange. A sudden fullness and pressure blooming inside of her. 

Surprisingly gentle, he gives her a minute when he is fully seated within her, groaning at the feeling, gritting his teeth as he remains still. Finally, she pushes back against him and he begins to move. 

Pure sensation coils in her stomach, a growing pressure that makes her moan each time he pushes into her. Soon she is matching his easy rhythm, her fingers tangling in his hair as he holds her waist tightly, his hips undulating against hers. 

He presses a quick kiss to her parted lips. “Christ, what a perfect cunt you have,” he breathes, fucking her in slow, deep strokes. She looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, gasping when he strokes his thumb against her clit. 

“Olaf – _oh god,_ ” she pants against his lips, clenching around his cock as she comes. He exhales sharply, silently marveling at this brilliant creature, flushed with pleasure. He chases his own release, thrusting into her faster until he reaches his peak, pressing deep inside her. 

Violet lays, flushed and panting, as her husband flops down beside her, curling his arm around her and pulling her to his side. 

“Good?” he asks, and she can practically hear the smug satisfaction dripping from his voice. 

“It was fine,” she says with as much disinterest as she can muster, but it comes out breathy and soft. 

He laughs. “Oh please, you couldn’t hope for a better first fuck.” 

She rolls her eyes, turning away from him but he catches her to his chest, kissing her cheek and holding her so her back is flush against him. She squirms at first, but she can’t deny that the warmth of his body against hers is comforting in a way that she doesn’t want to think about too deeply. 

She falls asleep to the sound of his even breathing, curled into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes yikes yikes
> 
> pls validate moi, I so appreciate every comment it's great motivation!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from mitski, geyser

vii. _you’re my number one, you’re the one I want_  
 _and I’ve turned down every hand that has beckoned me to come_

Olaf wakes before Violet does. The late summer sun had filtered through the half-open curtains, and he shuts his eyes against the pale light, groaning. His little wife sleeps soundly next to him, curled into his side. There are purpled-bruises along her hip, reddened marks on her pale skin from his attentions, tangible proof that he’d had her first. He smiles, feeling victorious and satisfied. It’s still early, and so he throws a heavy, possessive arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against his chest as he settles back down. He draws the covers around them, pressing a kiss to her head before drifting off. 

The second time he wakes, it is markedly less peaceful. Violet wakes with a start, sitting up rapidly and jabbing her elbow into his side in the process. 

“Fuck, ow – Jesus, calm down,” he snaps as she looks around wildly, the sheets pooling around her waist. At his voice, she is suddenly aware of her nakedness and crosses her arms around her bare chest with a yelp. 

“Don’t look at me!” she cries, turning her back to him as she pulls the sheets around her body. 

He would have found this display amusing if not for the dull ache in his side. He is so tired of this little game of hers, flirting with him shamelessly, then pushing him away. He’ll be the first to admit that he loves the chase, but he _won_. It’s time she realized that and accepted that she was well and truly his and his alone. 

“I was literally inside you, can we spare the dramatics?” he says, crossing his arms behind his head as he leans back against the headboard. Violet looks sharply over her shoulder, glaring at him. 

“You’re impossible!” she says, smacking his arm. He laughs, catching her wrists and hauling her to him. Her anger falters as she’s pressed against him, acutely aware of how bare they both are. 

He meets her eyes, sees the conflict in them, the desire. He relishes it, loves knowing he got under her skin. Olaf leans in, pressing his lips to hers as he lets go of her wrist, tangling his fingers in her long, dark hair. 

She is stiff against him for a beat, but then she’s kissing him back fiercely, holding his face between her hands. He lifts her so she’s straddling him, the sheets forgotten and tangled by their feet. Violet leans over him as they kiss, her hair falling forward in a curtain. He cannot help but moan against her lips, rolling his hips up against her so she can feel him, hard against her thigh. 

He trails his hands down her sides, resting them on the curve of her hip. Her arms loop around his shoulders, holding him to her as he presses open kisses down her neck, satisfaction blooming inside him each time a gasp escapes her pretty pink lips. 

Violet suddenly twists out of his arms, her palm flat on his chest as she pushes him away. She’s still seated in his lap. 

He watches with interest as she carefully reaches down between their bodies, wrapping her delicate little hand around his cock. He groans, head falling back, and bucks upwards into her touch. He catches her eye, and sweet little Violet _smiles_ , wicked and tempting. 

He sits up, pressing close to her and covering her hand with is own, guiding her movements. 

“Darling girl, had her first fuck and now she can’t get enough, is that it?” he murmurs against her ear, licking at the pulse point on her throat. He’s determined to rile her up, to get back some of the control she’d somehow wrestled away. “You want me, don’t you?” 

“I want you,” Violet says, stroking his cock in a maddeningly slow pace. “To _shut up_ ,” she finishes. She meets his gaze and with a determined set to her jaw she lowers herself down, inhaling sharply as she’s filled. 

“ _Oh,_ ” she breathes, experimentally rolling her hips. His hands grip her waist tightly, his heart thundering in his chest. 

_What a strange turn of events, indeed._ He certainly didn’t expect this, but he’s going to enjoy every last minute of it. 

She was his. 

He allows her to dictate the pace, thoroughly enjoying the process as she discovers the angle and rhythm she likes best. His hand moves from her waist to cup her breast, brushing a thumb over a peaked nipple as she rides him. 

“Good girl, you’re doing so well,” he praises, noting how she flushes, her hands on his shoulders to anchor herself. He grabs her hips, helping her move up and down. “Tell me how it feels,” he says, knowing her stiff sensibilities are absolutely mortified right now, but he needs to see her undone.

She bites her lip, not speaking, but gasps as he thrusts up into her. 

“Tell me, Violet.” He drops his hand from her chest, sneaking it between her legs to stroke at her. 

“So deep,” she chokes out, her head falling back as she moans when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. 

Olaf’s lips curl into a smirk, undoubtedly pleased. “Go on then, come for me.”

It only takes a few more strokes, deep and hard, and she’s falling apart around him, her thighs trembling and her rhythm faltering. She falls against him, her face pressed into the crook of his neck as she tries to steady her breath. 

He doesn’t let her come down, holding her flush against his chest as he fucks up into her, savoring each whimper she makes as she clings to him. He comes with a low moan, kissing her temple almost tenderly. 

They lay together, panting, until Violet clambers off him and hurriedly slips out the bedroom to the bath. It would be terribly annoying if she was going to run off every time they fucked, but he’d let it go for now. He tucks his arms under his head, closing his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. 

The spot on his chest where her palm had rested burns, even sharper with her absence. He imagines she has carved out a space somewhere between his ribs and his warped, mangled heart. It’s now heavy with her, but he doesn’t mind too much. 

To his surprise, Violet reenters the room a short time later, her dark hair wet. She smells like rain and roses, and he has to resist the urge to bury his nose in her neck. The bed dips with her weight as she perches on the edge.

Olaf sits up and is pleased when his little wife approaches him. He kisses the crown of her head, curling around her and resting his head on her shoulder, trying to siphon some of her warmth. 

Obstinate as ever, Violet tries to shrug his arm off her, but even he can tell it’s half-hearted and she’s soon relaxed against him. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, absently stroking her arm. 

“Sore,” she says honestly. “And tired.”

It’s to be expected, so he just hums in acknowledgement, holding her a bit closer. 

They sit in the late morning sun in a pleasant silence, which he of course breaks. 

“You’ll be seventeen in a week,” he notes. 

At this, Violet stiffens, turning around abruptly to face him. “What did you say?” she asks, incredulity creeping into her tone.

He blinks, brow furrowing. “I said, it’s your birthday soon.”

“I– oh.”

“What?” he asks, annoyed.

“I-I, well, I didn’t know you knew that. When my birthday is, I mean,” she says, shuffling uncomfortably. 

Olaf laughs, pulling her to him again. “My odd, ridiculous little wife,” he croons, kissing her cheek. “Of course I know. I’m an _actor_ , remembering details is essential to my craft! Detail is what makes theatre believable, authentic! Honestly, I’m offended you’d think otherwise.”

Violet rolls her eyes, but allows him to hold her. “Oh my god, enough of your histrionics!”

He nods earnestly. “Yes, I’m also good at history.”

It takes her a second to realize he’s completely serious, and for once, it’s a bit endearing. Violet cannot help but laugh, and she presses a kiss to his cheek before dancing out of his arms, in search of tea. 

––

Violet does not see her husband much for the next few days. He comes in and out at odd times, but the separation suits her just fine. Ever since they’d slept together, she had felt a strange tension pulling at her stomach, at her heart. She had just wanted to experience it in the most physical sense, and she’s certain that Olaf would agree. He’s not the sentimental type. 

Which, of course, makes this tension or whatever it is all the more unpleasant. Violet had grown accustomed to their relationship, and this had stupidly, frustratingly changed it. It was only the slightest shift; they still hardly spoke about anything of consequence, but she could _feel_ it. 

She distracts herself from these musings by focusing on her garden, pruning her roses and preparing for the colder months. 

The summers grew shorter and shorter. August draws to a close, and September brings chilled mornings, leaves rapidly loosing their summer green, and her birthday. Just as every other birthday she’d spent in this godforsaken house, it’s a lonesome event. She doesn’t mind this, if anything, the familiarity is comforting. 

Of course, he has to go and ruin that too.   
He pitches up late at night, the click of the lock turning alerting Violet to his presence. She hears the familiar weight of his steps up to the bedroom, seeking her out. 

She looks up at him over her book as he enters and is immediately struck by his strange countenance. Normally so fierce, so incredibly smug, he seems withdrawn and quiet. She sits up, concerned, her book falling to her lap. 

“Violet,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in years. He walks to her side of the bed, and she finds herself reaching for him before she can think. He catches her outstretched hand, turning it over so her palm is facing up before pressing something in it, closing her fingers around it and letting her hand go. 

Violet stares, brow furrowed as she unfurls her fingers, picking up the soft strip of ribbon he’d placed there. It’s a deep purple, reminding her of dark plums. She traces its length with a finger, resenting how touched she is. 

“Your other one was frayed,” he says finally, hands tucked in his trouser pockets. 

Violet nods. She does not know what to do. They stand in an uncomfortable silence for a minute, until she pulls at his shirtsleeve. He follows her movement, allowing her to pull him to sit on the edge of the bed. 

She meets his eyes, impossibly pale and impossible to read, and cups his sharp jaw, drawing his face to meet hers as she kisses him, sweet and soft. 

“Thank you,” she says, her hand warm against his cheek. His lips quirk up in a small smile, the most genuine one she’d ever seen from him. It only unnerves her further. 

He doesn’t say the words, doesn’t actually wish her a happy birthday, and for that she is grateful. A husband, giving gifts and well wishes to his wife. It is far too domestic a scene, too normal. It is not them. 

Instead, he drags her to the edge of the mattress, her legs hooked over his shoulders and her nightie forgotten on the floor. He devours her, using his tongue and fingers to make her come once, twice, three times before she is near tears, tired and oversensitive. 

After, he rests his head on her stomach. Violet stares at the ceiling, carding her fingers absently through his hair, the ribbon still clutched in her other hand. 

––

It’s like the floodgates have opened. 

It dawns on her, quite suddenly, that she can seek him out, find her pleasure in his arms. Why shouldn’t she? It may be a sin, but she was damned anyways. Her hands, unclean, invisible blood dripping like spilled ink. Guilty by association. 

But then she thinks of Klaus, of Sunny, and her eyes sting with tears. Her innocence, her soul – that was the price. And she’d pay it, gladly, every time. 

So who could deny her this little bit of pleasure in her life?

Each time it happens, with increasing frequency, they both act surprised, as if they just happened to be in the same place, at the same time, and just happened to fall into bed together. It’s as though each time is new, even as he learns her body and she his. 

Olaf passes her in the hallway, her nose buried in some book, and catches her round the waist. Violet makes a small squeak in surprise, the book falling to the floor as he presses her up against the wall, his knee wedged between her legs and his hands framing her face. He kisses her, smirking against her lips as she relaxes into his embrace. 

With a surprising strength, Olaf lifts her, hands hooked under her thighs as he hauls her up. She’s trapped between the wall and his lean frame, can feel his desire for her. There’s very little preamble this time: her dress is bunched up around her waist and he fumbles with his belt, aching to be inside her. With one smooth motion, she’s filled and all she can do is cling to him, moaning as he pounds into her. 

It’s quick and fast and hard, and he comes before she does but finishes her off with his fingers as she whimpers against his neck. He lets her down somewhat inelegantly, and she nearly falls over as she stands on unsteady legs. Instinctively, he reaches for her but ever stubborn, she bats his hand away, straightens her clothes, and stalks off with her book. 

He almost admires her commitment to disinterest. 

Sometimes, when the aching loneliness claws at her ribs, Violet will wander the house. She finds herself at the door to his office, as if her feet had taken her there of their own volition. He raises a brow as she enters, but otherwise ignores her.

She had begun to spend more and more time there, tinkering with appliances or reading in an armchair in the little corner of the office that was rapidly accumulating her things. Recently, Olaf had begun to refer to it as _her_ chair, and she notes this distinction with mild panic. His and hers. It’s far too domestic. 

Sometimes, the mere presence of another body isn’t enough to drive away the desolation, and Violet finds herself tugging whatever manuscript he’s working on out of his hands, carefully settling in his lap. He leans back to accommodate her, hands automatically going to her waist, holding her steady. She meets his eyes, gently stroking his cheek with her thumb, and presses her lips to his. 

Her kiss is needy, almost desperate, as she unbuttons his shirt with practiced hands, pulling it off his shoulders. She trails her palms down his bare chest, moving to undo his belt, her lips never leaving his. He holds her back, gently, and lifts her dress over her head, making quick work of her undergarments. 

Impatiently, Violet fiddles with his trousers until his hands cover hers, quickly undoing the fastenings and then she sinks down on his length, sighing against his lips as she moves in tight circles. His grip is tight along her hips, bruising the delicate skin but Violet doesn’t care. She clings to him, needing to be as close a possible, to reassure herself that she’s here, she’s real, she’s _seen_. 

“I’ve got you, darling girl, so good for me, aren’t you?” he croons against her skin, using the pad of his thumb to rub her clit. 

They come together, panting and flushed. Violet collapses against him, grateful for the sturdy chair, without which they’d surely fall to the floor. His head rests against her sternum, fingers stroking meandering patterns on her bare back. 

“God, you’re perfect. My perfect little Violet,” he breathes. She rolls her eyes, but allows him to hold her as they catch their breath. 

It’s a game they play. A game of want and wanting, push and pull. 

November comes and they’ve been married for three years. The occasion is marked by the consumption of several bottles of wine, falling asleep in a tangled, drunken mess of limbs. 

Seasons change as the year goes on, and they both acclimate to their shifting relationship. A new, tentative understanding is reached. 

And then, inevitably, the period of what could foolishly be called peace comes crashing down around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's 3000 words of cold-medicine fueled nonsense   
> next up: showdown


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from japanese breakfast, boyish

viii. _lack of inhibition works wonders in revealing every demon_  
_and all this confrontation, this suffering_  
_what do you want from me?_

Violet celebrates her eighteenth year by setting a fire. 

That hadn’t been the original plan, of course, and when she thinks about it later on, she’ll struggle to remember how exactly it happened. 

It does involve alcohol and a crushing sense of ennui. 

Olaf had been distant, leaving for days on end, speaking to her in clipped, terse tones. His gentle caresses – a kiss pressed to her temple, a reassuring arm around her waist – becomes far and few between. When he fucks her, there is a wild, almost manic gleam in his eyes, as if he can’t be certain she won’t disappear from his arms, into nothing. 

Violet is starved for affection. She hates him all the more for it. How dare he make her want him, let her get used to his presence, his _touch_ , and then take it away.

She doesn’t know exactly how it happened. If she were to explain the chain of events, she would say the tower was the catalyst. Sparking a reaction, bursting and fast. 

The house feels heavy, as if it could sense the disquiet of the occupants. She walks through the halls, stopping short as she approaches the narrow stairs that lead to the tower. The tower room that she had once been held in, ensuring she did not run away before the wedding. It is a place she had staunchly avoided in the four years she lived here, the visceral memories too numerous and too painful. 

She doesn’t know what possessed her that particular day, but she climbs the narrow steps to the dusty, long forgotten room. 

Memories hit her like a tsunami, crashing over her and drawing her under. She remembers the last time she was with her siblings, the last time she truly had a family. Each step forward, further into the darkened room, is shaky and unsure. Violet’s breath catches as she sees relics of the past: Klaus’ broken glasses frames, an impossibly tiny baby shoe of Sunny’s. 

She sees her wedding dress, neatly hung up on a clothes rack along with other costumes and clothes. Trembling, she reaches her hand out, running her fingers over the chiffon, shutting her eyes tight as tears threaten to escape. There are boxes and chests hidden beneath the hems of the clothes, and a rather ornate one catches her eye. 

Bending at the waist, she slides the dusty chest out and with growing trepidation, she slowly opens it. Inside are worn journals, anthologies of poetry, loose photographs, and the manuscript for _The Marvelous Marriage_. 

Her heart plummets, her chest empty and hollow. This play – this is what sealed her fate. _Four years_. She’d been married for nearly four years, and she was foolish enough to let herself feel. How could she forget all the suffering, all the pain? Was she so lonely, so desolate that she’d begun to feel some sort of affection for him?

She falls to her knees, weeping. Tears, hot and salty, trail down her face, drip down her chin. Violet feels distraught, wrapping her arms around herself as her whole body shakes with sobs. She allows herself to cry, to mourn her family, her life, her sense of self. 

She cries until her throat is raw, until she has nothing left. Violet sniffles, wiping at her eyes, and picks up the manuscript, its weight damning. A photo slips out from the pages, falling to the dusty floor. Violet frowns, reaching to pick it up.

The photo, slightly yellowed with age, depicts her mother, young and smiling. Next to her is a blonde woman, a dark-haired man with solemn eyes, and –

Violet chokes, feels the air rush out of her lungs. She can’t breathe. 

Olaf–- her _husband_ -– sits, arm intertwined with a pretty woman in a red, both smiling at the camera. 

She is certain she is drowning. How else could there be such a desperate pain in her chest, in her lungs? 

It’s just like her dream. She is drowning, unable to break to the surface, and then she is swallowed whole by an empty blackness.

–– 

Olaf drives down the street, lost in thought, idly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He needed to be meticulous in his planning, move quickly and surely. These next few weeks were crucial to their success, and then finally the weight and stress of the past months would be lifted. 

He looks out the window up at the sky, the dark clouds heavy with rain yet to fall and – was that smoke? Startled, he nearly drives into a lamp post as the wisp of smoke turns into dark plumes, the closer he gets to his house. 

Heart thundering, he speeds there, tires screeching. He barely takes the time to park haphazardly before he’s rushing up the steps to the house, frantically looking for fire. 

He stops short when he sees everything perfectly intact, right where he’d left it this morning. Still, the smell of smoke persists and he follows it to the back door, leading to the garden. There stands Violet, clad only in a thin slip, bottle in hand, and flames dancing around her face as she stares into the fire. 

For a minute, he is frozen. Her eyes are empty, unseeing, and it terrifies him. He shakes his head, striding forward. 

“What _the fuck_ are you doing?” he yells. His voice startles Violet, and she turns sharply, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. Upon seeing him, she shrieks and darts to the other side of the fire before he can reach her.

 _Fucking brat_ , he thinks darkly, squaring his shoulders. 

Violet takes a deep swig from the bottle, wincing as the acrid whiskey burns her throat. She’s unsteady on her feet as she watches him with wild eyes. She stumbles, and alcohol sloshes out into the fire. The flames roar and shoot up, and Violet yelps, staggering back in shock. 

“Are you fucking crazy? What is your problem?” he says, advancing on her. 

“ _You!_ You’re my problem!” she screams, swaying unsteadily. 

His chest tightens as he follows her gaze and finally looks at the fire. He sees her wedding gown, blackening into ash. The original manuscript of _The Marvelous Marriage_ , his notes still lining the margins, goes up in flames. That play, the one that brought her to him, made her his. 

It’s almost poetic. It started with a fire and a play, and it is only fitting that it should end the same. Did he ever really think this could end in anything but flames and smoke?

Violet uses his distraction to slip away, but the movement catches his eye and he chases. She runs, but she’s drunk and tiny, and it only takes a few strides before he catches her around the waist. Violet shrieks in indignation as he hauls her up and over his shoulder, the whiskey bottle slipping from her grasp and shattering on the ground. 

He allows himself a second to mourn the loss of good liquor before taking her inside. She pummels his back with her fists, wriggling in an attempt to free herself, but his grip is iron tight. He ascends the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, using his shoulder to open the door to their bedroom. 

_My bedroom_ , he corrects his traitorous mind, tossing her onto the mattress. He’s immediately on her, caging her in with his body. He pins her wrists down, his knees on either side of her body. To her credit, she does not flinch or falter, but stares at him with furious eyes. 

“You burned an original manuscript,” he says, voice low and dangerous. He is seething. _How dare she_ , the ungrateful brat. 

“It’s a terrible play! And we all know you wrote it, _Al Funcoot_ -– you’re not fooling anyone!”

Naturally his pride is wounded, but he pushes it down to focus on the matter at hand. His grip on her wrists tighten. 

“Okay, what the fuck is this? Some latent teenage rebellion?”

“Oh yes!” she cries. “Your child bride is acting out, who could have ever seen that coming? What did you expect? That I would be happy playing wife?”

Violet thrashes in his grip, trying to push him off, albeit unsuccessfully. He looms over her, and she turns her head to the side, tears pricking at her eyes. She is so mad. She hates him so much. 

“Violet,” he says, softly. He sees her deflate, sees the fight leave her body as she goes limp in his arms. Her ribbon is tied tightly around her left wrist, and it unexpectedly stirs something in his heart. He imagines it tying him to her, binding them together so she could never part from him. 

She looks at him then, and her lips tremble as she utters “I hate you.”

He brushes her hair away from her face, smoothing his hand over her cheek. She unconsciously leans into his palm. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He meets her gaze for a beat, then slowly presses his lips to hers and that’s all it takes. It’s like breathing life back into her. She tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer to her as he kisses her breathless. Olaf smiles, peppering open-mouth kisses down her neck, marking the pale skin. 

Her lips taste of whiskey, and he feels drunk with desire, with anger. He would make her his, drown her in pleasure until she bends to him. 

He tears her slip off her, and she impatiently untucks his shirt, buttons flying off. It’s a nice shirt, but he finds he does not care as he shrugs it off to the floor. All that matters right now is seeing his little wife, stripped down and undone. Her clever little hands work at his belt, allowing him to kick his trousers off. Their clothes pile on the floor until they’re finally, blessedly bare to each other. 

He presses two fingers through her folds, finding her hot and slick. “Christ,” he says hoarsely. “You’re so wet for me.”

“You’re hateful!” she spits, fingers gripping his shoulder as he settles between her legs. 

“So you’ve said,” he hums against the skin of her inner thigh, breath cool against her flushed skin. 

“And infuriating,” she says, but the end devolves into a whimper as he presses his mouth against her cunt. 

“Noted.” He lifts his head up to meet her eyes, lips slicked with her. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she grants. “No.”

He smirks, and then all she can see is the grey of his hair as he does wonderful, unspeakable things with his mouth. Violet presses her face into her arm, stomach muscles tensing as she comes with a soft cry. It’s not enough though, blind desire and anger course through her blood, and every nerve ending is alive with it. 

She very nearly yanks him upwards, desperately fitting her mouth to his as she wraps her arms around his neck, drawing him down on top of her. He kisses down her throat, feels her pulse thrumming like a little bird, and then he is roughly pushing her legs apart, pressing inside her in one thrust. The sensation of being filled pulls a breathy moan from Violet, and his grin is predatory as he sets a punishing pace. 

“You are mine,” he growls, each word punctuated by a sharp thrust. 

All Violet can do is moan in response, her head falling back as he drives into her. He wants to hurt her, wants to make her dizzy with pleasure, wants her to feel him for days to come but she gives as good as she gets, meeting his thrusts and raking her nails down his back. 

He lifts her hips upwards, and her mouth opens as he pushes even deeper inside her, wrapping her legs around his narrow waist. Olaf takes the opportunity to kiss her, slipping his tongue in her mouth as his hands roam her body, taut and tense with building pressure. 

She cries into his mouth as she comes hard, her whole body trembling and he soon follows, spilling inside her with a low moan, collapsing against her.  
She holds him to her for a beat, their skin pressed together, a thin sheen of sweat on her breastbone. He turns his head, finding her lips and kissing her sweetly, a stark contrast to their furious, passionate coupling. 

Violet feels an aching sadness in her chest, replacing the desire and tension from before. Her anger dissipates, like a flame gone out with a single exhale. She is so very tired. 

She allows herself the sin of curling into his body, warm and familiar, letting him card his fingers through her hair until she falls asleep.  
––

In the morning, Olaf wakes alone. He reaches for Violet but finds her side of the bed cold and empty. He sits up, frowning. 

He finds her downstairs sitting at the dining table, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. Her hair is damp, face pale and stony. She wears a black dress. _A mourning dress_ , he thinks idly, feeling dread claw at his ribs before settling heavy in the pit of his stomach. 

Violet sips her tea and reaches into her pocket to produce a flimsy photo, laying it on the table in front of her. He freezes, heart clenching painfully.

For a second, the air between them stills, atoms frozen in time. And then, their eyes meet and the moment and everything before it shatters around them. 

“Well, well, well,” he says finally, a dry chuckle escaping him. “Shall we take a drive, wife of mine? Long conversations go best with long drives, I always thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nearing the end
> 
> endlessly thankful for your comments! send me your thoughts, always down to talk about these two


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the civil wars, poison and wine
> 
> we've come full circle lads

ix. _your hands can heal, your hands can bruise_  
_I don’t have a choice, but I still choose you_

Violet sits, unmoving next to him. Olaf faces straight ahead, grip so tight on the steering wheel that his knuckles turn white. Sunlight catches the band around his ring finger –- plain gold, matching the ring adorning Violet’s left hand. He steals a glance out of the corner of his eye, and is filled with the strange feeling that he’s driving with the ghost of a girl. He resists the urge to reach out and touch her, to grab her hand in his and reassure himself that she’s here, she’s real, she’s flesh and blood. 

“Why did you lie to me?” The words are spoken quietly, their solemn weight hanging in the air between them. She stares resolutely ahead, but he sees her hands clasped tightly in her lap. 

“I never lied to you.”  


“You have a photo of my mother!”

“I knew her, yes.”

“And my father?” she demands.

“After the schism, we had a few… shall we say, _encounters_.”

“Schism? What schism?”

“Of VFD. A secret, noble society,” his voice drips with disdain. “With noble people.”

Violet’s head is spinning. “You were in this–this organization?”

He nods, his lips drawn together in a tight, solemn line. 

“I don’t understand!” she cries. “If this VFD is good, then why––“

“Why was I in it?” he finishes for her. “Because, my dear wife, it always starts off that way. They find you when you’re young enough to believe in goodness and idealism, and old enough to be traumatized by the world. And then, you realize that it is absolute bullshit in the most cruel way imaginable. The world is full of liars and cheats—VFD is no different.”

“No, you’re wrong.” She shakes her head, heart thudding painfully in her chest. He’s wrong, he has to be wrong. “My parents were noble! My mother—”

“ _Your mother murdered my father_ ,” he snarls, venom lacing his tone. 

Violet is no stranger to heartache, but this pain is exquisite. Her stomach lurches, unnamed emotions swirling inside her. “I–I don’t understand,” she begins, but he continues. 

“That spineless Bertrand helped her cover it up, and Snicket too, that lovelorn fool. Beatrice always had a way with men, an uncanny ability to wrap them around her finger.” 

He is being cruel. Violet feels as though she is being wrenched apart. A wave of nausea hits her, and she grips the door handle tightly in an attempt to steady herself. 

“No, no no,” she chants, shaking her head furiously. “That can’t be right -– no, you’re wrong, you’re wrong.”

She sees his mouth move as he responds, but she cannot hear him over the thunderous roaring of blood in her ears. Her head spins as she takes in quick, shallow breaths. 

“Stop, please,” she mutters. He doesn’t hear her, and her desperation grows. She cannot breathe. “Please, please stop the car. I-I feel sick.” Her voice is small and pitiful, even to her own ears, but she doesn’t care so long as he stops. 

He glances over at her, sees her deathly pallor, only heightened by the black of her dress. Mercifully, he slows down, pulling the car over to the side of the road. They had been driving for ages, far from the city and into the outlying countryside. There is no one else around them. 

He sighs, looking over at his wife, pale and trembling next to him. “Don’t you dare throw up in my car— _fuck_ , come back here! _Violet!_ ”

She throws open the car door, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she takes off, heading toward a thicket of trees. Every atom in her screams to _run_. She has to get as far away from him as she can. Each time her foot hits the ground the reverberations shoot up her leg painfully, but she keeps going. Her chest burns, but she keeps going. 

Olaf barely remembers to turn of the engine before he’s out and tearing after her. 

She can hear the snapping of twigs, can hear him calling her name. Her heart races. She is prey, he is a hunter. She is drowning, and he is the shore. She is _burning_ , and he lit the match. 

_Run_ , she thinks, _run_. 

It doesn’t take long for him to catch her, grabbing her arm so tightly it is sure to leave bruises. He yanks her towards him, but she slaps him away viciously, her eyes welling with tears. 

“You’re lying. I don’t believe you,” she says, arms wrapped tightly around herself. 

He simply shrugs, and her heart _breaks_. The fact that he isn’t spinning lies to convince her speaks volumes. He’s telling the truth. 

Her vision blurs as tears fall, trailing down her cheeks, red from the stinging wind. Violet cries and cries, crumpling into herself. She allows Olaf to pull her to his chest, holding her tightly as her shoulders shake with sobs. His fingers card through her hair, murmuring to her in soothing, low tones. She hates how comforting his embrace is, hates how even now, she still wants him. 

Her cries quiet, turning into hiccups, and she pushes him away, simultaneously stepping back. Olaf lets her go, his hands held up, as if he was approaching a frightened, wild animal. 

“Where are my siblings?” she demands, fear seizing her. If anything happened to them, she’d die. “Are they still with Dr. Montgomery?” 

“As far as I know, yes.” He carefully takes a step forwards, arms still outstretched. “No doubt being indoctrinated into perfect neophytes.” The last part is muttered under his breath, almost lost to the wind, but Violet catches it. 

“What do you mean? Dr. Montgomery is part of this-this _thing_?”

Olaf snorts. “My dear, it’s more prudent to ask who _isn’t_ in VFD. You can’t possibly imagine the sheer scale of it, how far their reach goes.” 

Violet stares at him with those impossibly big, dark eyes, looking like at any moment she might bolt. He can see curiosity tugging at her, can see it light up her eyes, and he has to suppress a smile. Despite what she’d like to think, he knew her, probably better than anyone. He takes another step closer. 

“Tell me,” she whispers. 

“VFD has existed for centuries, in some form or another. This is the current iteration. They claim to work for the greater good; a higher, noble purpose,” he says flatly. “Of course, it’s all a fucking lie.”

“I don’t understand,” she repeats. “My parents wouldn’t be in something with bad intentions.”

“Intentions don’t matter. No matter how noble the origins were, this is what it truly is. It’s false idealism and betrayal and death, Violet. They warp you, consume you and you know what? It’s always the young volunteers who die, who end up in jail, who end up _fucked_ because of the corruption and secrecy and lies, masquerading as nobility. Do you think the people on top get their hands dirty?”

Violet shivers violently, frantically trying to process everything he is saying. 

“Make no mistake,” he continues. “Their hands are _dripping_ with blood. They benefit from the knowledge volunteers gather, and that means power. And money. Yours is not the only family fortune that’s funded their little operation. They buy elections, cops, legislation. They run the world, and yet have the audacity to claim moral superiority.” His voice grows louder, his jaw clenched in anger. 

“But you’ve hurt people! You’ve _killed_ people!” she cries.

“Yes, I have. And I don’t pretend otherwise. I know _exactly_ what I’ve done.”

He takes another step, the gap between them almost closed. “But tell me, Violet. I hurt people when I was in VFD, at their direction. Your parents did, too. Does that make it noble?” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle. 

He reaches out, tenderly brushing his fingers along her cheekbone as she weeps. She tries to speak, but no words come. He’s struck by how pitiful she looks, a lost little girl. 

“Violet. Look at me.” 

Her dark, mournful eyes meet his, lashes wet with tears. Even now, she’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“I’m not telling you to denounce your family, just to open your eyes and see. The world isn’t divided into saints and sinners. It’s all grey.” His fingers move from her cheek to her chin, tipping her head up. She holds his gaze, her little rabbit heart fluttering at his touch. 

“So there’s no way out and nothing left? There’s nothing good?” she cries, her voice breaking. He could call it naivety all he wanted, but she wouldn’t accept his Machiavellian attitude, so callous and cold. She couldn’t. 

“That depends,” he hums, closing the distance between them and pressing her against his chest. Gently, carefully, he presses his lips to hers, cupping her wet face between his hands. Violet clings to him, grateful for his solid presence anchoring her as tides threaten to pull her under. 

“This is good,” he murmurs against her skin. He trails his hands down her shoulders, down her back, resting them on her little waist. “You, you’re good.”

She is crying again, full sobs that wrack her frame. He kisses away the tears, breathing reassurances as he holds her tightly. “My wife, my darling girl. _My Violet_.”

Violet pulls herself away, her hands in tight fists at her sides. 

The urge to just lift her over his shoulder and take her away is strong, but Olaf forces himself to stay collected. It wouldn’t do to scare her off before she’d exhausted all her questions. 

“There is so much out there, Violet. Why suffer for treacherous, corrupt people who’d sooner stab you in the back than tell you the truth? Why not carve out some of it for yourself?” 

Silence falls around them, his words carried off by the wind. They cut two lonesome silhouettes against the darkening sky. 

Finally, Violet speaks, shifting her weight uneasily. “Who was she? That woman, in the photo.” Her voice is gravelly, her throat raw from crying. 

Surprise flickers in his eyes for a second before he carefully masks his features. He wouldn’t lie to her. “Kit Snicket,” he answers. 

“And?”

“And what?”

“Don’t play games with me, Olaf. I can’t take it,” she pleads. “You know what! Why were you –“ she cuts herself off, unsure of how to phrase it. _Why were you together? Why were you so affectionate with this unknown, perfectly made up woman?_ “Why were you both like that?” she finishes lamely, hoping he will understand and spare her the humiliation of explaining. 

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “We were engaged.”

The air leaves her lungs. 

Olaf snorts, unable to help himself. She was so transparent sometimes. “Calm down, we didn’t marry. You’re my only wife.”

“You love her!” Violet accuses, hating the way hurt seeps into her tone. She is _not_ upset. She’s not. So, why does her heart clench painfully, a deep and gnawing ache? How could she ever hope to compete with a ghost? She had thought –- she had _hoped_ -–

 _No_. She doesn’t let herself finish the thought, certain she will break if she does. 

“I did,” he says finally, and Violet lets out an involuntary gasp, anguished and mournful as she folds into herself. She looks so very small, so very young. Olaf wants desperately to sweep her into his arms, to coax kisses from her trembling mouth until she sees that she is his, only his. 

He doesn’t, though. He forces himself back, staying his hand. 

“It was a lifetime ago, Violet.” 

She shuts her eyes tightly, tears spilling down her reddened cheeks. 

“You know me Violet. Truly. And I know you, much as you hate to admit it. It’s you and me.”

Violet huffs a small laugh at this, watery and sharp. 

“Morality isn’t linear – not much in life is, certainly not love.”

Her heart is in her throat. “Can you—do you…?” she asks hesitantly, searching his pale eyes. 

“Yes, I do.” He reaches out toward her, offering her his hand. “Come with me, Violet. Come home.”

 _And live with me, and die with me, and everything with me._

Violet hesitates, uncurling her clenched hands, her arms heavy at her sides. She looks at him then, really looks at him. Her husband. His hand is still outstretched, reaching for her. 

Slowly, slowly, she reaches out, resting her hand in his. Olaf breathes out, the corners of his mouth lifting in an almost-smile. His hand is warm and solid around hers as he laces their fingers together, drawing her towards him. 

What is she if not his? Where else could she go?

So she’ll stay. 

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we go! we have come to the end, thank you so much to everyone who stuck with this. 
> 
> comments are so appreciated, I love to hear your guys' thoughts!


End file.
